


Work to Do

by ChloeWeird



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hagrid POV, Hagrid angst, Marauders' Era, Pre-Canon, Pre-Philosopher's Stone, Self Confidence Issues, Younger Hagrid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-09-01 02:37:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8603902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChloeWeird/pseuds/ChloeWeird
Summary: Hagrid watched the group of students laugh and joke as he worked.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I've been reading the HP books to my cousin, and I accidentally got emotional about Hagrid. 
> 
> Unless I've done my calculations quite wrong, Hagrid would have been in his mid- to late-40s when James and Co. were in 7th year. After that, Hagrid joined the order, but I started to think about what Hagrid's life would have been like following his expulsion, since most people obviously believed he was the one killing people. I thought it might have been pretty lonely. 
> 
> Thus, this was born.

He saw them from a distance, lounging about on the banks of the lake, casting spells on rocks so that they'd made funny noises when they skipped them across the surface, then laughing uproariously and falling all over each other until they could throw the next one.

Hagrid's mouth twitched, but he shook his head and bent it back to shovelling the trench he needed for the new cabbage patch. He'd been at it all day, and the easy, repetitive work had lost its appeal hours ago.

He liked his job, mostly. He was suited to the work in a way most wizards weren't. They were too soft, too used to their spells doing the hard bits for them. He found it comforting and satisfying, to see the land shaped by only his hands.

But there were days, like this one, that he dragged his feet across the beautiful grounds, and counted the minutes until he could have supper and find his bed. There were some days that he slept poorly, knowing the next day would be the same, and the next, and the next.

Another peal of laughter echoed across the lake. He gripped his shovel tighter with massive, chapped hands.

Some days, he watched the young students, no older than he'd been when he'd been told he couldn't be a student anymore, and the older ones, with far more learning than he would ever get without a proper wand and a pardon that would never come. Some days, all he could do was watch, and work, and wonder if he'd spend the next 70 years of his life as tired as he was right then.

But it never lasted long. He had a hot meal waiting for him in the great hall, and a soft mattress to rest his sore back. He'd be happier in the morning, and do the same tasks as he'd been doing, but with a better outlook than he had the day before.

He knew all that. But it didn't make the doing of the work he still had that day any easier.

It took him another hour to finish the trench, and when he climbed out and wiped his face, his rag was drenched in muddy sweat. He took his shovel in hand as he started the long trip around the lake to the castle, where dinner would be served as soon as the sun set on the ceiling in the great hall. His feet ached from standing all day, and the beginnings of a blister chafed on his palm until his switched the shovel to his other hand.

The group of students he saw earlier were still there, but they'd stopped their laughing. They were reading, now, with their parchment and ink around them. At least, a few of them were reading. Two had abandoned their books and were groaning to the others about strained eyes and cramped writing fingers.

Hagrid's hand tightened on the shaft of the shovel, then he hissed and let it go, but the anger was still there.

He'd never been clever. There was a reason he wasn't in Ravenclaw, and it wasn't because he didn't value book learning. It was just that he hadn't ever been very good at it. His marks had been poor for all three years of his time as a student, but it hadn't mattered to him, then. He'd thought that he would have time to catch up when they were older, when there was less writing and more doing, like the seventh years had told them there would be.

That was then. Now, there was a lot that he'd give to be assigned a three-foot long essay again. He still read his old school books from time to time. He'd been allowed to keep them, since they weren't any good to him without a wand he could use. (Legally, that was.) He'd paged through his three years' worth of material many times, but didn't often have the energy after a long day of work to actually read. He knitted instead, since it was a good use of his time, and it didn't bring back memories of lessons best forgotten.

It made his blood boil, seeing these kids cursing their books, their boring classes, when they should be  _ grateful.  _ And with things the way they were now, with dark wizards teaming up and doing unspeakable things, to talk so lightly of spells that could _ save lives _ \--

He stopped in his tracks. He took a few deep breaths of the Scottish air. It was September, and still blazing hot during the day, but it got cooler in the evening when the sun started to go down. He could taste the first flavour of autumn, and it made his rage crumble away like the orange leaves would in November. He hitched his shovel higher onto his shoulder and wiped his face again, blowing his nose, which had been running all day from how hot he was, rather than an oncoming flu. He started his walk again, faster this time, because dinner was close, and he wanted it warm, after a day like this.

He had no right to be angry with those boys. They didn't know what it was to miss something so fiercely when before, you would have given it up in a heartbeat. That wasn't their fault.

His anger scared him sometimes. He remembered his dad telling stories about how he used to throw his toys and rip up his things in his childish fits. His dad used to laugh and pat his shoulder and say how glad he was that he was past that, but sometimes, he worried that he never truly would be. That there was too much of his other parent running in his veins for his dad's patience to keep it under control.

He counted knitting stitches in his head as he neared the big front doors, letting the rhythm overpower the worry and the weariness. The day was almost done, and tomorrow was a new one. There was no use in dwelling on things he couldn't change. He _could_ change the emptiness in his belly, and that was what he intended to do.

As he reached the stone steps, the group who'd been by the lake reached them too, through with their studying and heading to dinner, the same as he was. Among them, he spied a flash of red hair that he hadn't noticed before.

"Hello, Mr. Hagrid," Lily Evans said, with a smile.

"Hullo," he returned, and dipped his head in an awkward greeting.

Lily liked the grounds, always had, and so they'd met many times during her years at the school. Hagrid remembered her in her first year. She'd been small and a little homely, and she'd smiled at him every time he passed with a bale of hay for the thestral stables or a log for a new fence post. 

Her shy smiles had grown into small waves, and then to saying his name, like she knew him, and was glad to see him. They never spoke, outside of that, but when he'd noticed what a beauty she'd turned into, he'd felt somehow proud, and a little anxious, like a father whose little girl had grown up in the blink of an eye.

Beside her--far too close behind for a simple acquaintance--walked James Potter. Hagrid had never talked to James, but he knew his name, from the quidditch commentators, and general chatter at the staff table. He had a reputation, even Hagrid knew that, but that didn't stop him from holding Lily Evans' hand as they walked to dinner.

It also didn't stop him from letting go of that hand and extending his to Hagrid.

"Evening, sir," James said with a bright grin.  

"Evenin'," he mumbled, taking James' hand and squeezing it as gently as he could. James' eyebrows lifted, but he didn't wince, so Hagrid was fairly sure that he hadn't crushed his fingers. It was difficult to tell sometimes. But James had a not-so-gentle grip himself, and calluses that came from gripping a broomstick, and Hagrid was the one wincing. He pulled his hand back, cradling it to his chest while it throbbed and stung.

Now that he'd stopped shovelling, the pain had time to catch up to him, and it wasn't pretty. He peeked down at his palm and it was already blazing red in some parts and bone white in others. It would probably only get worse until he went to the hospital wing for some salve, but he probably wouldn't bother. He always felt too big and too in the way on the small cots of Madam Pomfrey's room. (And Madam Pomfrey remembered. She'd nursed the poor souls who were petrified back to health, and while she told Professor Dumbledore that she believed him, she still wouldn't meet Hagrid's eyes.)

"I'm sorry, did I--?" James stammered, looking panicked. It wasn't a look Hagrid had ever seen on his handsome face. "I didn't mean to--"

"Yeh did nothin'. Jus' a long day o' work, is all." Hagrid smiled, hoping James could see it through the growth of his beard. He was letting it get long, so he could keep warm when the winter came, since his dad wasn't around to scold him for looking unkempt.

"Righto," James said, his cocky smile plastered back on his face. He nodded at Hagrid and turned away from him, meaning to head inside to supper, but Lily stopped him.

"Does it hurt very much, Mr. Hagrid?" She asked, her green eyes warm and looking straight at him. He looked away from them, down to the worn down stone of the entrance. He'd not been looked at with such concern for a long time, not even by Professor Dumbledore, and he wasn't used to it.

"Not much," he mumbled, then, more truthfully, "I've 'ad worse."

He chanced a look up, and her frown deepened. "Oh, dear. Is it the…" She trailed off, and pointed to the shovel, still slung over his shoulder. He'd forgotten it was there, forgotten that he should have taken it to the shed before coming up to the school. He shrugged it off, embarrassed to be holding it, to be too tired and dimwitted to remember that he couldn't take garden tools into the great hall.

"Yer," he answered, then he leaned the shovel against the wall, carefully, so that it didn't topple over. He wiped the grime that coated the handle off his palms and onto his work pants, then grimaced. He'd forgotten his blisters again.  

"Couldn't you use gloves?" One of the other boys asked.

Hagrid shook his head, then realized they expected more of an answer. "Nah. Too sweaty. The handle dries straight away, but the fabric jus' soaks it up. Makes everythin' slippery."

She nodded, slowly, a little crease forming between her eyebrows like she was pondering a great philosophical question. "I see. Well, you should get that taken care of."

Hagrid shifted on his feet, and his face turned hot under his beard. "I'll be alrigh', Miss Lily, don' yeh worry about me."

"But you will go to see Madam Pomfrey, won't you?"

When he looked up again, her kind green eyes had turned steely and stubborn. She was a smart girl, he'd heard the teachers say, but what made her special was her tenacity. He'd looked up the word in the dictionary that night, but it'd taken until now to see what the teachers had meant. She was a force to be reckoned with, his dad would've said, with a misty look in his eye. He always had liked people who stood their ground.

And they needed more people like that, these days.

Hagrid wanted to lie, and tell her that he'd go to the hospital wing right away for a salve, but he didn't think he'd get away with it. She was too sharp for his poor attempt at fooling.

"She'll be wantin' her dinner same as I do," he said, firmly, hoping Lily would see his point and let it go, but not expecting her to. "I won' bother her wi' a little scrape."

"But it could get worse, Mr. Hagrid, you should--"

"Here. Put this on it."

James held out a bottle to him. It was pumpkin juice, the label said, and the glass was frosted over with how cold it was. Behind James, one of his friends was re-fastening the bag it'd come from, which was probably spelled to keep their nosh cool. Hagrid blinked at it, and his hands twitched against his chest. His palms were itchy and hot, and the bottle would feel like heaven on them. He wanted to nod his head in thanks and take it, but his arms were as frozen as the ice that had formed in the top of the bottle neck.

James was smiling, and Lily looked approving, but Hagrid didn't...couldn't trust it. Could he?

When he was still a child, training with the gamekeeper of those days, the children he went to school with had known why he wasn't a student anymore. They'd given him a wide berth, mostly. His reputation saved him, even though no charges had ever been laid because there was never any proof. Only one student's word against another's. But there were those who wanted to use him to prove themselves to be brave or strong. They'd challenged him, again and again, and he let them win. He let every one of them knock him onto his back in the barren field beside the broom storage huts, until, eventually, they stopped coming, because he wasn't enough of a fight anymore.

Those students graduated, and more teachers retired and were replaced by ones who were never told by anyone why such a young, uneducated oaf was keeper of the keys and grounds because no one was allowed to talk about it at all. But they still gave him a wide berth, mostly. He doubted they even knew why, but even after so long, Dumbledore was still the only professor who talked to him at the head table in the great hall.

James had never spoken to him before. Neither had Lily, not more than a greeting, but at least she'd smiled at him, and noticed when he walked by. Why would James smile at him and talk to him in front of his friends, if not to mock him in some way? The drink could be poisoned to make him turn green or grow boils, or spelled to turn hot in his hand and make the blisters worse. He couldn't know until he tried it, which was too dangerous. No matter how small the chance, he couldn't--

He opened his mouth to refuse, but he stopped when he actually looked at James. He was holding his hand out with the drink, but he wasn't looking at Hagrid. He was looking at Lily, who was smiling softly, a different smile than the one she gave Hagrid, or anyone else. And James' grin wasn't cocky or ridiculous. It was hopeful.

Hagrid smiled and felt his lip crack a bit from dryness. "Thank you," he muttered, and he took the bottle, then felt goosebumps come up on his arms. The cold glass felt as good as he'd imagined on the blisters, and he sighed in relief.

"Well, I'm so hungry, I could eat a whole deer, what about you, fellows?" It was one of the other boys in the group, one of the Black family, perhaps. Hagrid had never been good with the names of his own classmates, never mind the names of the students who came after. The rest of the boys, including James, laughed like magpies, falling all over each other. Lily looked just as dumbfounded as Hagrid felt, so he didn't feel too badly about not getting the joke.

"See you, Hagrid," James said, and the other boys followed suit, tossing off a goodbye as they headed for the door and food for their empty bellies. (If they  _ were _ empty. He remembered being that age, being hungry all the time, even just after eating. The bag that the drink had come from had looked awfully full to have only a couple of bottles of pumpkin juice in them.) 

"You should really go and see Madam Pomfrey, Mr. Hagrid," Lily said, even as James pulled her away by the hand.

"Thank yeh, Miss," he said, but the chances that he'd do as she asked were getting smaller the longer he held the bottle in his hands. It was working so well, it was almost like magic, he thought, grinning to himself.

When he was sure the group had gone, he opened the door and headed to the great hall himself. Young Black might've been hungry enough to eat a deer, but Hagrid could eat an elephant.

He was in a better mood than he had been, but he still didn't feel up to much conversation, so it was good that no one spoke to him except to ask for the salt cellar, as usual. His eyes kept wandering to the Gryffindor table, to James and his friends, and the lovely Miss Lily. They laughed so much, he noticed, and it confused him. Even when he'd been a student himself, lonely, but not hated, he'd never been so happy that he laughed so often as they did, at every quip or pulled face.

He looked back down at his plate as soon as he caught himself staring. There was no need to draw attention to himself. Well, more attention. It was near impossible to disappear when a bloke was the size of Hagrid.

He was staring because he was a bit jealous, he realized. For a second, outside in front of the doors, when James had offered him the pumpkin juice--which was warm now, but not opened--he'd felt like a student again, sitting quiet at the end of the table and waiting for someone to ask him something, or ask if he wanted a humbug from the open bag being passed around the common room. It'd happened a few times. Once people got used to him, he'd known a few people well enough that they'd ask him how he was. It was always more exciting than he'd expected, and he had to stop himself from writing home about it because he didn't want his dad to worry that he wasn't making friends. (Until second year, when he didn't have anyone to write to.)

The moment had passed, however, and even though it wasn't that James was working up to make a fool of Hagrid, the reason he did it still wasn't because he could call himself Hagrid's friend. It was to impress a girl and make her happy. A noble pursuit, Professor Dumbledore would probably say, but Hagrid wouldn't be able to tell if he meant it or not.

***

Hagrid hummed to himself as he watered the plants he kept on his window sill. It was dark now, and they'd had a good day of growing, so he supposed they deserved a song. He wouldn't sing with words because he couldn't manage them and the tune at the same time, and he wanted it to be a passable song or he might as well not bother. 

That done, he tucked his watering can away on the shelf and picked up the fire poker. It was still hot during the day, as the back of his neck and the sweat on his brow could vouch, but it got cold at night, so he made sure the coals were still plenty warm. 

When he was satisfied, he sat down heavily on his bed but didn't lie down right away. He looked around his small hut, his home, even after the Hogwarts students had gone back on the train. Someone needed to stay and look after the grounds, even though there was no one to see them. It was a good home, solid, cool in the summer, warm enough in the winter. He had everything he could possibly need, but it felt still felt a tad empty some nights. Barmy, he was, thinking that, when he barely had enough room to turn around in it. 

Maybe he should get a dog, he wondered. A big one, who'd keep his feet warm on the nights when he felt they'd freeze right off. A dog with long legs, to keep up with him and sit with him while he dug trenches and carried logs, and weeded the pumpkins and patrolled the edge of the forest. He'd ask the Headmaster about it in the morning. Until then, he needed sleep. 

He looked at his hands, checking the blisters to see if they were healed enough to start work on the second trench the next morning. He didn't want to leave the first one open too long since the rain could come any day and make a mucky mess of his good, clean work. But they were still a bit red, even after the help of the frozen bottle.

He sighed, resigning himself to even worse blisters the next day, then stood up again to turn the blankets back. He was too tired tonight to read, so he didn't bother turning on the lamp, and used the light of the dying fire to make himself comfortable. _The Care and Feeding of Fire Crabs_ was gathering dust on the nightstand, but he didn't worry. He'd get back to it someday, perhaps over the Christmas holidays. He laid back, pulled his woolen blanket over him, shifted into the perfect position--ignoring the loud creaking from the bed--and had almost closed his eyes when he heard it.

_ Knock knock knock. _

He lifted his head, eyeing the door like it would burst open at any moment. Who on earth would come down here at--he looked at the clock above his fireplace--half past seven. He groaned and swung his feet over the side of the bed. It wasn't really that late, so he supposed he couldn't blame whoever it was. But the only visitor he ever got was Dumbledore, and he always came for tea time. He'd been called up to the school to fix something a few times, but they usually sent an owl instead of walking down themselves.

The knock came again, and Hagrid pushed himself up from the bed with a grunt. He felt like an old man when his joints creaked like that, and he knew he should probably talk to Madam Pomfrey about that, too, but it wouldn't be tonight. He stumbled over to the door, gave his loose sleep pants and shirt a look. Whoever it was would just have to get over that if they were going to come after the sun was mostly set. 

He opened the door to see James Potter standing on his porch. 

"Hullo, Hagrid," he said cheerfully, craning his neck to look up into Hagrid's face. 

"'Lo--" he cleared his throat. "Hullo, er, Mr. Potter."

"James is fine. I feel like my dad when you call me Mr. Potter. Or like you're my teacher." James laughed, but it didn't sound like a mean, mocking snigger. It sounded almost...relieved to Hagrid.

"Can I help you wi' summat?" Hagrid said, his voice gruffer than he felt.

"Oh, right. I brought you these." 

He held out his hand and in them was a pair of gloves. They were used, a little worn but Hagrid didn't see any holes. He didn't take them. He only looked from them to James, who grinned and flapped them until Hagrid grabbed them.

"I remembered what you said about your hands," James explained, when Hagrid's confusion must've shown on his face. "And how gloves don't work because they get too slippery. I spelled these ones so they'll stay dry all the time. They soak up sweat, but then evaporate it before it can go anywhere. That should fix your problem."

Hagrid gaped at him. The gloves were soft in his hand, and he couldn't do a thing but look at them. 

"And don't worry about the size," James went on, unconcerned about Hagrid's silence. "I fixed that too. They'll fit whoever puts them on, snugly so they won't move around, but no so tight that you can't move your fingers. Don't tell anyone, but I borrowed these from Sirius. He needs new ones anyway, and I got him some in red and gold for his birthday, so he'll never miss them."

Hagrid managed to nod, and his hand tightened on the gloves. He didn't think James would snatch them away, but it didn't hurt to be cautious. 

"The charms should last a year or so, then they'll start to fade. But come find me, and I'll renew them for you. I'll be in London after graduation." James stood tall, his back straightening with pride. "I'm going to be an Auror. What with all the...everything happening, I figure they could use some young blood." 

Hagrid looked at James and saw the man he would be, instead of the boy he still was. He was different this year, Hagrid could tell. He'd been a good student before, but all the teachers at the head table had said he'd amount to nothing if he didn't grow up. He was growing right before Hagrid's eyes, and all of a sudden, he wasn't looking at a boy with more book knowledge than Hagrid would ever have, but at a person he could call friend, if James felt the same way. 

"Thanks," Hagrid mumbled. "'Preciate it."

James relaxed, and Hagrid hadn't noticed before how stiffly he'd been holding himself. "My pleasure. See you around, Mr. Hagrid," he said, and he bounded off the steps and into the twilight, back up to the castle.

Hagrid watched him go, then glanced around the small field outside his hut for anyone else--Lily, James' friends--but there was no one. No one around to impress with his generosity. This was all James. 

He rubbed the gloves between his large finger and thumb, then shut the door and sat down on his bed again. He looked out the tiny window and watched the last of the light slip away. He didn't feel as tired as he did before, and the next day's work didn't seem so terrible. He set the gloves on the bedside table, carefully laying them on top of one another, and their worn cotton was shiny enough to pick up the glint from the fireplace. 

Ill winds were blowing, his dad would say. They all lived in a bit of a bubble at Hogwarts, but they read the paper. They heard about the bad witches and wizards who were making a stand. He knew Dumbledore spent more and more time in his office, reading books and writing letters. Gathering support. 

Hagrid was ready. He'd be beside James, and Lily, too, if the time came when they had to make a stand of their own. For now, though, he had a trench to dig, and pumpkins to grow big for Halloween. He could lose himself in the work, until James and Lily and all their friends were through with being students. Hagrid's time was already past, but he was good at waiting, and working, and watching. He'd be ready when they were. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Don't forget to Kudos or comment if you liked it!


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